Speak No Evil
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Tag to "After School Special." Dean faces the fact that he and Sam need to talk about what happened at Truman High. Sam's life depends on it. Hurt!Sam. One-shot


_A/N: I'm sorry I've fallen behind in posting and replies. I've had a rough little bit with my health again. I'm trying to get back to writing, but I lost a whole week and a bit. I will have new chapters of everything by next week, if not a little sooner._

_A/N II: This is a tag to "After School Special," so a few spoiler. I needed a little more, from Dean, from Sam… And something I know was killing Sam started bugging me too. I wanted to get it posted before the new episode was on! Huge thanks to TRaSan._

**Speak No Evil**

A soft, disturbed muttering cut through the nightmare of hell. It didn't wake Dean at first, just pulled him away from the place he was, up to where the air was a little fresher. The sound was familiar and as the horror fell away, his subconscious recognized it—Sam. Dean opened his eyes to the yellow glow from the bathroom light and stared at the stain on the ceiling. The dark spot on the light tiles intrigued him. They were on the bottom floor of a three story motel, the upstairs bathroom was nowhere near that spot, so where had it come from?

Dean swung his legs out of bed and walked into the bathroom. The room's ice bucket was full, the ice glinting in the light. He sighed, and got a glass, filling it with ice and water. Sam left the light on and always made sure there was a bucket of ice before he went to bed. He wondered how Sam knew about the light, he left it on without question. One of the most terrible things in hell had been the days—maybe it had been months—in complete darkness, the lack of light so profound it seemed to pull the sound away. It had been in that dark place that Alastair had exacted some of his favorite tortures. Dean shoved the memory away and sipped at the cold water. He carried the glass out and sat on the bed.

"No," Sam muttered softly.

"Sam?" Dean turned towards his brother's bed.

"No, please."

"Sam?" Dean leaned over and turned on the light. Sam's face was covered in a sheen of sweat and he was shivering under the sheet. As usual, most of the blankets were on the floor.

"No." Sam sobbed that time.

"Sam?" He walked to the bed and picked up the blankets, pulling them over his brother.

"No, please, no." Sam sounded so distressed Dean reached down to wake him. When he laid his hand on Sam's shoulder he realized his brother was burning up.

"Sammy?" He gently shook Sam. "Hey, come on, wake up."

"Dean?" Sam asked without opening his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean said sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached over and grabbed his glass of ice water off the nightstand. "Here." He slipped his hand behind Sam's head and held the glass to his mouth.

"Thanks." Sam opened his eyes and peered at Dean. "S'wrong?"

"Sarong? Have you been watching old movies again?" Dean chuckled.

"What? No, are you okay? You're awake, did you have a nightmare?" Sam started to push himself up.

"I'm fine," Dean snapped. He put his hand on Sam's forehead. "You're burning up." Dean grabbed a blanket off his own bed and tossed it over Sam. "Kids, Sam, they carry plague. You might have plague."

"Last case of black death in this area was 1907."

"You just know that off the top of your head?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "One day, Sam, your brain is going to explode."

"I looked it up because of… of…" Sam frowned.

"A new hunt?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed with relief. "Yeah, that's why."

"Let me get you a couple of Tylenol, then you can go back to sleep."

"Thanks."

"Sure." Dean got up and got the pills out of the first aid kit. Sam stuck his hand out from under the blankets and he was suddenly reminded of his brother when Sam was six, dutifully taking his medication, but hating it. Dean smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing." Dean handed him the pills and held the water for him. "Try and sleep, okay?"

"You're the one who woke me up remember?" Sam mumbled, closing his eyes.

Dean stood and paced around the room. He was restless a lot, years—_well actually decades_—of restraint left him wanting to move. Sometimes he got up in the middle of the night and walked out the door, just to reassure himself that he could. He opened the door, letting the cool night air blow in. It must be later than he thought, he could smell fresh donuts on the wind. He walked back in and put on his jeans and coat. Before he left, he grabbed the note pad and scrawled _"Hunting warm donuts, back in 30." _He left the note propped on the nightstand and headed out the door, following the scent of fried bread.

**XXX**

_The ring of children, maybe some young teens, danced around him in a ring, holding hands like a schoolyard game._

"_Dean is dead, no life for him, lost forever, and he did no wrong,  
Dean is dead, no life for him, in hell for you, and that's our song."_

"_No, please, no. Stop," he begged for the thousandth, perhaps millionth time. _

_The circle of children danced in the opposite direction._

"_Evil, evil, Sammy is evil. Down the road, down the tube, his slide will take his soul,  
Evil, evil Sammy is evil. Death and pain are his domain and darkness takes him whole."_

"_No, please, please." He tried to raise his hands to block the song, but it kept going, each verse sharing a little of hell, a little of the suffering Sam caused throughout his life, each refrain of "evil, evil," increasing in volume._

_Sam tried to force himself out of the dream, he'd gotten fairly good at guiding himself away from that blood-filled playground, littered with the bodies of those he'd killed. There were two new bodies now, Barry and Dirk. He hadn't realized he'd killed them before now, but he had. _

"_No!" he could hear his voice audibly, but he couldn't escape the dream, fire was licking along his body, trickles of sweat feeling like the crawling of ants over his skin. "Dean?" he called out, knowing there would be no answer. Dean was in hell, rotting in hell because of him, another casualty of Sam Winchester. "Evil, evil." The song wouldn't stop. "No, please. Stop, please, stop." Another body dropped and another. Dean's hellhound mauled corpse fell on him, driving him into the flames._

"Hey," a voice came through the dream and a cool hand rested on his forehead. "This might help." Something cold wiped his face. Dean's body dropped into the fire, the blaze slowly extinguished by a cool rain."Sam?"

"Dean?" he whispered, knowing it couldn't be true.

"Yeah, who else? Papa Smurf?" the voice had that hint of a smirk that could only be Dean.

"Huh?" Sam forced himself up from the dream, getting his eyes open. _It's a dream. Dean's been back for months. _"Hey." His throat hurt, his body ached.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright." He opened his eyes, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. "Where are you going?" Sam asked.

"Going?" Dean grinned. "I've already been. I found warm donuts. The place down the block was frying them for the day when I got there."

"Fresh donuts?" Sam blinked. Dean and donuts. He wondered how many times his brother had gone in search of the holy grail of warm donuts in their lifetime.

"You want some?"

"No, I feel a little sick." Sam pushed himself up.

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" He frowned at Dean and walked into the bathroom. Once he finished business, he stopped to look in the mirror. _Huh. _He pulled off the bandage covering the stab wound, it was starting to look a little ugly. Sam swabbed it with alcohol and stuck another bandage on it before walking back into the main room. Dean was pacing around like a caged tiger. "Can I get a little more sleep?"

"Sure, it's only five." Dean was frowning with concern. It was his "what's wrong and why aren't you telling me?" look. Sam smiled trying to diffuse his brother's mood. "What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing." Sam sank back onto the bed and closed his eyes. He listened to Dean pacing before dropping back to sleep.

_He was back in the schoolyard, the children dancing around him._

"_I'm not evil, I'm not," he said desperately._

"_Evil, evil, Sammy's evil."_

"_No, please, I'm not." The bodies, the victims of Sam Winchester, had joined the circle around him, dancing, chanting with the others, their blood covered bodies making small mark on the pavement as they moved. "I'm not."_

"_You are, they're dead because of you," a voice said, Sam turned, his eyes blinded by a white light so intense it burned._

"_Please, no, I'm not. I just want to help."_

"_I was dead because of you," the other said. Sam now realized, in that odd way dreams worked, that it was Dean._

"_No, Dean."_

"_You are consorting with demons, Sam. I died for that? So you could play with demons? Evil, Sammy, and I will hunt you," Dean said, lashing out and knocking him down. Dean stood over him, eyes glittering oddly, something whispering soft words from behind him._

"_No, please, please." Sam sobbed._

"_All those bodies, Sam, and how many more. Evil, Sammy, even when you were a kid, you were evil just waiting to happen."_

"_NO!" _Sam shouted, forcing himself away from the dream, sitting up in bed. He opened his eyes, he was in the hotel room, Dean sitting at the table, the remnants of a box of donuts on the table in front of him,

"Sam?" Dean's voice was calm. "You were dreaming, what was it about?"

"Candy canes and lollipops." Sam got up and walked to the bathroom. He was feeling light-headed and overly hot. _Fever, I am sick. _As he walked out the door, things got fuzzy for a moment. He reached for the wall, leaning against it until things stopped spinning.

"Sammy?" Dean said, standing, concern written on his face.

"You're right, I might have a little plague," Sam said with a chuckle. He pushed himself off the wall and started towards the bed.

"Sam!" He heard his brother's shout, felt Dean catch him as he fell, but that was all.

**XXX**

Dean glanced up when Sam came out of the bathroom. Sam stopped and grabbed for the wall. "Sammy?" Dean stood, wondering what he should do. Dealing with Sam these days was a little trickier than it had once been.

"You're right, I might have a little plague," Sam said, with what Dean thought his brother meant as a laugh, there was a little hitch of pain, however and it had him moving before Sam pushed himself away from the wall.

"Sam!" he shouted as his brother toppled, but he managed to catch him before he hit the floor. It was like colliding with a car. "Jesus, you weigh a ton anymore." Dean dragged Sam over and dropped him on the bed closest to them. "Sam?" Dean shook him, no reaction. Heat was radiating off Sam, enough that Dean could feel it without touching his brother. He ran to the bathroom and got the first aid kit, a hand towel and the bucket of ice. He shoved the cloth into the ice water and then put it over Sam's head. _This doesn't seem like a cold to me. _

Dean ran his eyes over his brother, noticing the wet spot on Sam's chest. He eased Sam's shirt up, the bandage over the stab wound was wet. Dean gently pulled it off. The wound was crusted over, Dean poked carefully at it and a huge rush of pus squirted out. "Oh, so not good." A feeling of helplessness held him immobile for a moment. He wondered if Sam knew the wound was that bad, if Sam… He stopped the angry train of thought and looked back at the wound. _Hospital? Not if I can avoid it, so I need to get that clean. _He rummaged around in the kit. _No antibiotics. Shit._ He sighed, luckily he knew where to get some. Dean grabbed the phone book, found a number and dialed.

"Nature Brother's Feed Store, can I help you?"

"Yeah, do you carry antibiotics?"

"Yes, sir, we have penicillin, and…"

"Penicillin will do. I need it for a…" Dean looked at Sam. "About a two hundred pound dog."

"That's a big dog, sir."

"Yeah, but he's a puppy at heart. He's got a bad infection in his chest, poor thing was playing with the kids up the block and got hurt."

"Sure, we have lots of, hmm, dogs that come through here that have wounds like that."

"Do you have one of those thermometers that you use in the ear—we have one of the other kind and my dog doesn't appreciate…"

"Right, I'll pull the meds and put a thermometer in as well, will you be picking them up, or can we deliver them?"

"Deliver? You guys deliver?"

"Yes, sir. Where are you and your, uh, puppy living?"

Dean debated, but something in the man's voice told him it was okay. It was part of what they did, learning to read people quickly. He decided this guy was okay. "We're at the Black Lion Motel."

"Okay, I'll send someone out with your order."

"Thanks." Dean hung up and looked closely at the wound. It was bad. He wondered if the kid had been chewing on the thing before stabbing Sam with it. After getting out the supplies, he started cleaning it out as thoroughly as possible, wondering how many times in his life he'd dealt with similar wounds. He'd just finished up when the antibiotics were delivered. He paid for them, and added a tip, looked at the handwritten directions the guy had sent and gave Sam a dose. There was also an analgesic and fever reducer with the note "injections safe for large puppies." Dean chuckled and gave Sam a dose of those as well, then sat down to begin the very familiar vigil, waiting for the meds to work or Sam to get so bad he had to go to the ER.

"M'not evil," Sam mumbled sometime later. Dean was dozing, watching "The People's Court." He glanced over at Sam. "No, please."

"Sammy?"

"No, please no."

Dean put a hand on his brother, Sam was still fiery hot. He checked the dosing on the drugs the feed store sent him, and gave Sam another dose, wishing they had something stronger in the kit. They'd used a lot of it up recently. "It's okay, Sam," he said, laying another cold cloth on Sam's head and putting one on his chest as well.

Sam's eyes snapped open, he grabbed Dean's shirt. "I didn't mean to kill him," he said desperately. "I know it's my fault. I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry." Sam started to cry.

"Hey, kiddo, it's okay," Dean said in the voice he'd used to soothe Sam over the years. "It's okay."

"I'm not evil, I'm not," Sam continued, fevered eyes searching Dean's face.

"I know, Sam." Dean patted the hand that was fisted in his shirt.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Sam continued.

"It's okay, Sammy."

"Not evil."

"I know," Dean said patiently. Sam's eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. Dean eased him back onto the pillows. "We're going to have to talk when you get a little better, Sam," he told his unconscious brother.

Dean settled into the routine of "caring for fevered Sammy." His brother would wake occasionally and they'd have the same conversation over and over. Dean would try and reassure Sam, but as the day wound on, Sam became more agitated with each waking. His fever wasn't breaking and Dean was starting panic just a little. Sam had three doses of antibiotics and the infection should be improving—only it wasn't. Sam was muttering again, his voice full of desperation and fear. Dean stopped dead when he heard "I'll pay, I will, take me instead."

"Sammy?" He pulled out the thermometer and stuck it in Sam's ear. "Too damn high, Sammy," Dean said, looking at the screen and the 104.5 temp. Dean paced across the room, then picked up the phone and dialed 911.

**XXX**

Dean had said that his hell had been torture, unrelenting torture, for some reason Sam's was the old-fashioned tried-and-true pit of fire. He hovered there in the heat, every now and then escaping to try and talk to Dean, the Dean that was now pursuing him through the fires. He finally gave up, finally listened, and sank down into the fires. He was a killer, he was evil. Barry and Dirk were dead because of him. Jess was dead, dad, Dean, Nancy, Henricksen… The list went on, and he was done with it all.

"Don't you do this, Sam," Dean's voice said, a different voice, sounding scared, full of tears.

Sam tried to figure that out, but his brain wouldn't make sense of it. There was no sense in the odd pain in his arm or the lurching flight over hell. No sense in the noise or the sudden deep, deep darkness that took all the pain, the fires and everything else away.

When the dark night began to retreat, the fires were gone, too. As he drifted up through the layers, he realized the hissing wasn't snakes trapped in a circle of hell, it was oxygen and the beeping was a heart monitor. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, half of his brain automatically counting the tiles off and multiplying them to get a number. Dean had shown him how to do that when he'd first learned his multiplication tables and was in the emergency room in a small town somewhere in Nevada. It had calmed him, that exercise in logic, and he'd kept it up through all the years, in all the ERs that he and Dean had been in.

"Dean?" he whispered. The room was empty. Despair washed over him. Rationality vying with nightmare images. _He thinks I'm evil and left. _Then a pause. _Dean wouldn't leave. _Pause. _He thinks I'm evil. _Pause. _Dean wouldn't leave. _Back and forth in a dizzying round. A nurse came in to check on him, he watched her apathetically. She left without even acknowledging him. _She knows I'm evil, too. _He closed his eyes again, trying not to give into the tears that had been pressing against him since they'd heard about Dirk's death.

"I leave for five seconds to get coffee and you decide to wake up," Dean's voice said from somewhere to his right. "You couldn't have waited just five seconds longer?"

Sam opened his eyes, Dean was walking into the room, a large paper cup in his hands. "Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean stopped, a frown of concern appearing on his face. "What's wrong?" He walked quickly to the bed. "Are you in pain? Is your fever…?" Dean sounded completely panicked.

"No," Sam said, reaching a hand out to grab Dean's arm before his brother could dash out of the room.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asked, peering at him.

"Uh," Sam thought about it for a moment. "Drugged?"

"Good boy." Dean patted his arm. "You're drugged to the gills. "

"What happened?"

"The stab wound."

"We cleaned it."

"Yeah, and I cleaned it again and dosed you with penicillin, but it didn't improve."

"It would have, Dean, you should have given it more time," Sam said.

"NO!" Dean shouted, took a deep breath and stared across the room. "It wouldn't have gotten better, there was a little piece of something lodged deep in the wound. The kid must have been chewing on it."

"What was in there?"

"A tiny piece of filling."

"Filling?" Sam asked, puzzled. "You mean like a tooth?"

"Yep. And mercury does weird things to the body. They took care of it last night, you've been out since."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. That kind of thing can kill you, Sam. You should've let me know how bad it had gotten."

Sam was watching Dean, his brother was upset—more upset than something as simple as almost dying with an infection would tend to make him. "I didn't know, Dean."

"You knew," Dean growled. "I've…" He stopped when the doctor came in the room. "Puppy's awake," Dean said, pointing at Sam.

"Yes, the nurse told me," the woman said with a smile. "You should be able to go home tomorrow." She lifted the bandage on his chest and poked at the wound. "It's healing just fine. You'll need to take antibiotics for a week, and we'll give you something for pain when you go."

"Thanks." He had no intention of taking the pain meds, but one of the rules they lived by was "fill a prescriptions." They could come in handy later, and the med kit was getting low on supplies. He'd used a lot of them while Dean was… was… gone, and they hadn't had the chance to replace them.

"Get some rest," the doctor said and left the room.

"Puppy?" Sam asked, trying to hold back the growing need to sleep a little longer.

"I needed antibiotics."

"Feed store?"

"Yep. I told them in the ER and how I got them, so they wouldn't try and close the place down. They understood, they get lots of farm workers in here and most of them have seen the feed store guys first." Dean chuckled. "I told them I had a two hundred pound dog."

"Big dog," Sam said, his eyes closing. _I don't want to sleep yet, come on open. _

"Big pain in the ass dog. We need to talk, Sam."

"Dean…"

"No, Sam. Talk." Dean patted his arm. "After you sleep, Sammy. We're talking. You almost let the infection get the best of you. Time to talk."

"Dean…"

"No arguments, Sammy," Dean said gently. Sam recognized the tone, Dean was worried he was hiding something and wanted to get it out—"clean the wound"—as Dean always put it. Dean was ready to talk it out.

Sam wasn't sure if he could.

**XXX**

Dean was flipping through channels, for a small hospital they had a lot of channels, more than the motel he and Sam were staying in, actually more than he'd seen for a long time. He'd watched classic car races, a show about making tequila, three episodes of "Red Dwarf" and part of "Spinal Tap," he was starting a new round, in search of something interesting when Sam started muttering in his sleep.

Dean looked at his brother, wondering what to do. Whatever was bothering Sam had been festering since they'd been at Truman High. Dean had tried to talk about it more than once, he had a feeling something was weighing Sam down, something that had changed in the last little while. His brother had been so excited to return, but now this. He'd heard Sam's desperate "I'm not evil," directed at Dirk, and knew that it was all connected somehow.

The problem was dealing with this new, post hell Sam was harder than it had been before. Sam was closed, he'd gotten hard and didn't talk to Dean, didn't open up, even with continual prodding. But whatever was going on, they had to deal with it.

"No, please. I'm not, I'm not. Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said softly.

"Okay, that's enough." Dean reached over and shook Sam, his brother didn't wake, he shook him a little harder. Sam muttered and pulled away. "Sam! Up and at 'em, front and center. Now." It worked, it always did. Sam's eyes snapped open. "Sam?"

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam started to get up, IVs trailing. "Are we late?" He blinked and looked around. "Hospital, right?"

"Yep."

"Then what?"

"You were having a nightmare, thought it was time to talk."

"You woke me up to talk?" Sam frowned at him, the full squinch. "To talk?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed, this was going to be fun. _Not. _"We need to talk."

"Nothing to talk about," Sam said, looking away from him with a frown.

"Sam?"

"Nothing, Dean, it's nothing."

"Sam? What?"

"It's nothing." Sam's voice was starting to crescendo, the explosion was imminent.

"Sam? What? Tell me?"

"It's nothing." Another notch up on the Sam explosion meter.

"Sam? What? Tell me? What?"

"It's nothing." It was getting close. Sam's eyes were red, his face white, his hands clenched.

"Sam?" Dean braced himself.

"IT'S NOTHING DEAN!" Sam's shout bounced around the room. Dean got up and waved to the nurses then closed the door.

"Sam?"

"I TOLD YOU IT'S NOTHING! NOTHING!"

"Sam?" Dean said gently. "What's nothing?"

"NOTHING!" Sam's shout brought the nurses that time. Dean grinned at them and waved them out. "I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT IT."

"Sam, listen to me, you almost killed yourself with this. You know as well as I do that kind of infection messes with your brain, and that kind of emotion messes with your body. You need to talk. I'm not losing you to some stupid high school kid with some kind of stupid grudge."

"IT WASN'T STUPID! HE'S DEAD AND I KILLED HIM!"

"What?" Dean asked, shock numbing his brain for an instant. "Killed who?"

"DIRK!"

"What?"

Dean watched the anger drain out of Sam, leaving nothing but despair. "I killed him, Dean, it's my fault."

"What are you talking about?" Dean said, watching a tear trickle over Sam's face.

"Me, my fault, Dean."

"What is, Sammy?" Dean sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on his brother's, giving it a little squeeze.

"Dirk."

"Dirk? Why is it your fault?"

"Dirk the jerk, Dean. I did that, I beat him up," Sam said, his eyes looking as lost as they had when he was a kid.

"Sam? What happened?"

Sam looked like he was ready to run, or collapse, but he took a steadying breath and started talking, telling Dean the story of Barry and Dirk and the fight. Dean had heard it before, at least parts of it, but never everything, and never in this broken tone—always before it had come with a little rush of pride. "So, it's my fault," Sam finished, looking away.

"It's not your fault, Sam. The kid deserved it."

"He was just trying to cope, Dean. Think of everything his father told us. It was hard for him and I made it worse. He died because of my actions. Another victim to add to the list."

"Sam…"

"It's true, Dean."

"Sam…" His brother didn't respond. "Hey, Sammy, listen to me."

"You can't bring him back."

"No, I can't, but you didn't kill him either."

"Dirk the jerk—you heard his dad. All he was trying to do…"

"Stop!" Dean snapped. "He wasn't just trying to cope, Sam, he…"

"His mother…"

"That's not an excuse, Sam."

"He was just trying to…"

"Would you stop?"

"Stop what?" Sam asked, frowning, his eyes bright with tears.

"Beating yourself up about this."

"He's dead because of…" Sam started.

"NO HE IS NOT," Dean said with a little more volume than he intended.

"I drove him to…" Sam kept going like Dean hadn't spoken.

"Sam!"

"What?"

"Listen to me."

"What, Dean? How do you think you can fix this?"

"He was a bully."

"His mom…"

"Yeah? And?" Dean sighed, exasperated.

"He had a reason to…"

"Okay. So having shit happen gives you a reason, is that it?"

"Yeah."

"Which is why I'm a bully?"

"God, Dean, no! You never were."

"Or you?" Dean asked, Sam took a deep breath. "Except for that one time?"

"No, I was…"

"The opposite and got your ass kicked a lot? Yeah."

"What does this have to do with anything, Dean?"

"Yeah, his life sucked, Sam, it was no reason to be a bully. That might have been his excuse, that might even be what the counselors told his father, but he was just a bully."

"Dean…"

"No, Sam, kids face shit every day. We had a rough childhood, but we weren't bullies."

"We…"

"Okay, don't like that example, remember Dan Zelman?"

"Yeah."

"His mom was dying. Wait," Dean held his hand up to stop his brother. "And you may not know this, but he was sick, too. He was never a bully. Never. In fact he went out of his way to help other kids. Caring for his mom didn't make him angry. His own illness, something he had no control over, didn't make him angry, didn't turn him into a bully."

"Yeah, Dean, but maybe…maybe he really wasn't…"

"He died the next summer, Sammy."

"Oh, that was Dan, though, Dean, Dirk was…"

"No. He didn't die because of anything you did. He made his choices."

"He was a kid."

"So were you. This is not your fault, Sam. Don't let this happen."

"But, Dean…"

"No, Sam. No. You were protecting your friend, you seem to be forgetting that. Yeah, what happened to Dirk was bad, but you didn't do it." He reached forward and grabbed Sam's shoulders and gave them a little shake. "It's not your fault, Sammy, let it go."

"I…" Sam took a breath still not meeting Dean's eyes. "You don't know what…"

"I don't care about anything else right now, we're talking about this, Sam."

"Dean, I…"

"Forgive yourself for this, Sammy," Dean said gently. "Don't let it fester like that wound."

"Dean…"

"Think about it, think if it had happened to me, Sam, what would you say?" Dean asked. He watched the emotions play on Sam's face. "Sam, it's not your fault."

"I…"

"What happened back then, Sammy, doesn't make you evil."

"Dean…"

"You're not evil," Dean said, suddenly knowing what Sam needed, suddenly hearing what Sam had said that night by the bus, the words he spoke while trapped in a nightmare.

"You don't think…?" And Sam broke, reaching out blindly for Dean.

"Let this go, Sam, let this go at least," he said softly, pulling Sam against him.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he said, resting his head against Sam's. "Not for this, Sam, there's no sorry needed here."

"I thought…"

"That's your problem, you think too much."

Sam chuckled, but didn't pull away. "Yeah, probably."

"No probably about it, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean felt the distance that was still there, the things that were unsaid, but for the moment he was content to be the big brother again, able to offer some comfort to Sam.

It wasn't much.

Maybe it wouldn't solve anything in the long run.

But right then, it was enough—for Sam, for himself.

It was enough.

_**The End**_

_A/N III: If anyone has an extra photo op with the boys and would like to sell, please contact me. Ongoing health expenses didn't let me get my ops in time—they were sold out long before I could even afford to buy my tickets. I'll even toss in a story, written to your prompts, if it will help!_


End file.
